


What are you doing in my house?

by inK_AddicTion



Series: Age of Rust [4]
Category: Guardians of Childhood - Fandom, rise of the guardians
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Character Death, Choking, Grief, Multi, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of drug abuse, past polyamorous relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inK_AddicTion/pseuds/inK_AddicTion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over, and Tsar Apollo breaks into his former General's house, concerned over his wellbeing. Upon seeing the wreck of Kozmotis without a purpose, the Tsar decides to pull him out of his funk and declares Koz will become his bodyguard. - request fic for ksclaw, crossposted from my tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What are you doing in my house?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KS_Claw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KS_Claw/gifts).



Kozmotis had lost track of the days. He’d given up on anything like a natural cycle of day and night, choosing instead to glare blearily into the fire and drink until he passed out in a stinking, drunken mess on the couch, whisky bottle still clutched loosely in his hand.

The war had been over for a few days. Koz only remembered that much because the people outside hadn’t stopped cheering and partying yet. He could hear their ignorant happiness reverberating through the walls, hear their tinny cheering like an endless looping soundtrack in his head, empty and meaningless. They weren’t heroes. They were murderers with shiny medals who’d killed their own friends at the first sign of darkness in familiar eyes.

He wanted to tell them to shut up, but the prospect of moving was too unbearable to imagine. Koz didn’t really care anyway. He didn’t care about many things these days. It was much easier to get drunk instead; he couldn’t remember how to string thoughts together enough to stop to think of how he’d lost his purpose. 

Koz was a machine built for war, a former man altered and shaped into the perfect weapon. But what use was a weapon without a battle? His master’s hand had dropped him into the sheath, and Koz rotted there.

Absently, Koz’s fingers wandered over a silvery patch of bleached skin right over his heart, a remnant from the extensive physical and mental alterations his Tsar had performed on him as a last resort to win the war. With them, Koz was a war machine unlike any other. With them, he was just another useless thing that had outlived its job. 

He would have fallen on his own sword, but his programming refused him even that since Koz wasn’t in immediate physical danger of shadow possession, when Koz’s body was supposed to shut down completely. The closest he could get was drinking until his body gave out.

He sighed, gloomily, and sank down into the cushions. He missed his family. He missed Archaline’s sultry laughter in the kitchen as she teased Selena, flushing and incapable of holding her eye because she was too short to reach the shelves and had to ask for help every time. He missed Apollo slouching against him on the sofa, always sitting a little too close, with merriment in his silver eyes and a playful smirk. He missed little Mim clutching onto the bars of the crib, chubby face always smiling, shining like a little star whenever someone picked him up. He missed his baby girl. 

Oh, how he missed Seraphina. He missed schooner rides and sailing the solar winds, feeding the Star-Fish and her sleepy little head resting on his shoulder, arguments and rows and Seraphina’s tears when he left and she feared he’d never come back. There were not words enough for the emptiness they left.

Koz had thought himself the luckiest man in the world when he’d married Archaline and had Seraphina, and luckier still when they found the Lunanoffs to slot into their lives, somehow perfectly fitting in all of their cracks and edges. More often than not, they’d shared their quarters, traveled together, ate together, sometimes, slept together. Seraphina had liked having a brother, even if she hadn’t admitted it.

But after the …accident… it all fell apart. 

Selena, consumed by her grief, had sunk into a depressive state and, on the advice of her husband, moved to a secure facility on the nearby holiday planet of Maherte to mourn without fear of hurting herself or anyone else. Mim, too young to understand that he had lost a second mother and a sister, only cried at the feeling of everyone’s sadness washing over the empath in waves. Eventually, his nanny Nightlight had removed him from the active care of his parents. Apollo had drowned himself in drink and sex, drifting uncomfortably away from Koz, who had had only mind enough to focus relentlessly on his duty, clashing methods of grieving that had led to physical fights between them more than once, fights that only ended when either Apollo’s guards dragged Koz away from the unconscious, bleeding Tsar, or brilliant flames threatened to kill them all. After those, something soured between them, and Koz made excuses to stop seeing him aside from important business in the war. Apollo hadn’t questioned it.

He missed them, Light blast it. Koz was tired of being alone. He wanted Archaline back. He wanted his daughter. He wanted to go home, but home was somewhere between his war-office and their graves. Koz had no home; this draughty old house with painful memories stamped into the walls was certainly not it. He didn’t want to be here, but the deed was in his name and Koz had nowhere left to go.

Koz hadn’t seen anyone since the official ending of the war had been announced, and Apollo ceremonially relieved him of duty, everything in the Tsar’s manner perfunctory and formal. Koz had turned up drunk, and staggered into a wall on the way out.

Well, aside his servant, a silent, uncommunicative man named Frank who put food on the table that Koz ignored and went to fetch him new bottles when Koz asked, Koz had been utterly alone. He wanted to say that was how he wished it to be. Solitary. It certainly appealed to the broken aesthetic of him, but Koz had never been the poetic sort and didn’t have smooth words to pull over the ragged edges of desperate longing in his soul.

He’d almost take possession, if it meant company.

The knock at the door then, came as something as of a surprise. Frank scurried to greet whoever it was, preparing to tell them to go away and leave the general in peace. Koz waited for the click of the door shutting, bleary eyes unfocused on the bottle he held. He tried to take another swig, missed, jabbed himself in the cheek with the bottle. He cursed.

Whoever it was didn’t go away, and a sinking feeling coated Koz’s guts as Frank hurriedly bowed and scraped his way through the door, ushering the visitor into the dimly lit, messy parlour, not cleaned since Koz had come in through the door and slouched there.

Tsar Apollo Lunanoff bowed his head to enter the room, unnecessarily, though it seemed a force of habit. His lip curled in disgust at the squalor, and his fine, beringed fingers idly brushed his pale grey coat as if he feared the dirt in the room might rear up to attack him. Perfectly made up as usual, he looked ethereal, godly in the dim light, his hair shining with the liquid gloss of jet and moonstone.

Apollo’s sharp eye fell on Koz, slumped and shapeless against the sofa, his powerful body wrecked with neglect. Something like dismay tightened his soft lips. “May the stars shine upon you, my General,” he said, every word soft and gently-spoken, as if he feared frightening Koz away.

Rudely, Koz said nothing, delighted in Apollo’s discomfort at the blatant disrespect. He’d always been so fussy. Evidently, however, Apollo was not here to be baited, and with an inhale that he seemed to immediately regret, Apollo composed himself and said instead, “Kozmotis, have you left this house since I saw you last?”

The answer was clearly no, Koz was still even wearing the clothes he’d worn to the ceremony. “Go away,” Koz said, slightly surprised that his voice was still clear and strong, not a hint of slur.

Apollo’s lips pursed. “You know I won’t stand for you destroying yourself like this.”

For some reason, Koz found that wildly funny. A rusty laugh that seemed more like a hacking cough gurgled up from his throat like blood from a stab wound. Apollo - concerned for him, after the amount of times Koz had searched through squalid sewers to pluck the Tsar from the dirtiest hole there was to be found, usually quivering all over with track-marks up his arms and bottles at his hips, his fine clothes missing and lead poisoning from thick collars at his neck. Constellar parties always did seem to break him a little. And besides, what made Apollo think that Koz gave a flying fuck about what he “stood for”?

The Tsar’s eyes flashed, and he looked to be struggling to control his temper. “Stop that!” he barked, knowing the mockery for what it was. He visibly reigned himself in. “I have a new job for you,” he said, briskly. “I want you to join my guard.”

“What’re you doing in my house, anyway? Fuck off.” There was the slur.

Apollo had bought them this house, he remembered. Koz, a young not-then-General, barely out of his honeymoon, had tripped and stumbled across the Tsar in all of his expressive glory, and Apollo being Apollo had decided, upon finding out that Koz was Archaline’s “new pet” (Koz remembered being deeply offended at the time) to buy him a house in the expensive city.

Too shocked to say anything, Koz had gone along with it, despite the vague sense that he was being groomed.

A mirthless smile played over Koz’s lips, and he took another swig from the bottle. How well that had gone. Their own private golden age had lasted for a few years at best, before Archaline’s body had shattered it with the glass of the fourth story window, and Seraphina had flayed them raw with the scratches of paint from a little schooner up the sides of a rocky gorge.

The smile slipped away. He still remembered the deep shock and numbness of those times, watching Selena slip further into madness while struggling to care at all, Apollo vacillating wildly between them, struggling to hold a broken partnership together that had ached only of the holes loss had left.

Apollo watched him drink, a cold sneer itching to break out over his face. “Kozmotis, pay attention when I’m talking to you.”

Koz ignored him, pleased when it visibly irritated Apollo. He didn’t know why he was doing this, deliberately pushing Apollo, being difficult for the sake of difficulty. He wanted Apollo to leave him alone, but he never wanted him to go at the same time. His thoughts were a drunken mess, so in the end, he ignored them in favour of another drink. He had nearly finished another bottle.

“Kozmotis,” repeated Apollo. “Kozmotis!”

No reaction at all. Koz continued to stare, dully, past him like he didn’t exist. Abruptly, Apollo had had enough.

He moved quickly, too quickly for Koz’s hazy, drunken mind to keep up. Apollo grabbed the bottle from Koz’s limp grasp and threw it, hard. It crashed against the wall with a horrific smash that made them both wince in the memory of shattered windows and broken bodies. 

In the taut aftermath, silence fell swiftly over the room, Apollo’s fists clenched and a hint of light seeping from his skin, testament to how thinly worn his control was. For the first time, Koz noticed the dark bags under Apollo’s eyes, not quite concealed by careful make-up. Apollo looked haggard, lines and crowfeet marking his smooth face, and he’d lost even more weight, his coat was hanging slightly awkwardly off his shoulders, and the tight leggings he usually wore had been foregone in favour loose pants that draped over his skin, artfully concealing the unhealthy ribs of bone that would be sticking out. Apollo had always been lean, but he’d never let himself get skeletal before.

The realisation that Apollo was still mourning as Koz was should’ve meant something, but all Koz could muster was a deep, dragging lethargy.

“What’re you doing in my house?” Koz sighed, and Apollo swallowed.

“I want you to become a guard,” he repeated, doggedly. “A personal bodyguard. I have enemies, Kozmotis - Nightlight has foiled three assassination attempts in the last week but he can’t be there all the time.”

Koz blinked and tried to piece together the words in his head. There was no way he wanted to be around Apollo all the time, torturing himself with memories that no longer quite fit. The man was insufferable even when they were fucking. Koz didn’t want to know what he was like when they weren’t, anymore.

“Send me to guard the prison, then,” Koz muttered. “I’m not going to be your light-blasted boot-boy.”

The Fearlings had been shut up in a great prison, one fortified by Selena herself, the strongest warder the Golden Age had. Weak and frail-looking, she’d been supported from the ship to the great doors, this slip of moon-mad girl. With the power drained from her after the spells were done, she looked dead already, a hollow-eyed corpse that had passed blindly over her husband and Koz as if she had no heart left to look. The kind attendants had brought her back to the special room in the ship and tied her to the bed.

Apollo had attacked Koz that night, some sort of small remark proving enough incentive for Apollo’s fists to be swinging towards his face and the raging prickles of his magic holding Koz senseless long enough for Apollo to make enough of a mess of Koz that the announcement of the war ending had to be put off long enough to ensure their general could actually walk to receive his honours.

Koz wondered if Apollo remembered that the way Koz did - Apollo’s animal snarl, the way he hadn’t stopped until his fists were red with blood, the glee in his eyes and madness in his lunar-bright skin.

Apollo laughed disbelievingly. “You honestly believe I’d send that to guard the Fearlings?” he goaded, gesturing dismissively at the wreck of his General. “No, you want to go there, you’d better prove that you’re stable enough to handle it or by all the suns in the galaxies you won’t get within twelve star systems of that place.”

“Why the fuck do you care?” Koz snapped. “I can handle it.” He gestured at the patch of dyed-white skin on his chest. “This is my purpose, making sure none of those monsters hurt anyone like they did us.”

Too late, he wished he had said me, because us included Apollo, and Apollo knew it.

“Well, now you have a different purpose,” Apollo insisted stubbornly. “Kozmotis, I won’t let you go to that prison.” He paused, and tried in a gentler tone, “I need you by my side. I won’t last till the year’s end if you don’t.”

The words came too close to a rough wound in Koz’s heart, and he pushed himself aggressively to his feet, reacting physically the way he always did. Apollo stepped back quickly, but not fast enough. Koz’s fist tightened in Apollo’s collar, held him still as he shoved his face against Apollo’s, flecks of spittle spraying the Tsar’s powdered cheek as he spoke.

“I said, why the fuck do you care?”

Apollo’s eyes stared resolutely into his. “Call it investment,” the Tsar hissed back, words as venomous as any viper, “I won’t see my best weapon fall to ruin.” Apollo was capable of giving as good as he got.

“Find someone else,” Koz snarled contemptuously, releasing Apollo and stalking off to find a new bottle of something alcoholic. Apollo seized his arm and a spark of magic lit between them, triggering Koz’s nerves and holding him still. Furiously, Koz was held forcibly unmoving, fire pouring out of his eyes as Apollo crossed to stand in front of him, his fingertips skimming over his skin to keep the spell from releasing.

“It has to be you, Kozmotis,” Apollo murmured, “You know I wouldn’t pick anyone else.” He paused, and his free hand cupped Koz’s cheek. “How dare you suggest that I would?”

He leaned up and kissed Kozmotis very gently, just a brief brush of their lips before he cleared his throat and stood back, evidently remembering that this was something he wasn’t permitted anymore. Radiating with offense, Koz was forced to bear it until Apollo’s fingers left his skin, and then he reacted.

With a single, violent movement, Koz jerked forward and grabbed Apollo’s collar, slamming him back into the wall so roughly the breath left Apollo’s body. He did it once, twice, Apollo’s head cracking back into the wall with such force that he nearly slumped over in Koz’s arms. Then he affixed his hands around Apollo’s pale throat, tightening like a vice, choking the breath from his lungs.

Apollo squirmed like a fish caught on a hook, his manicured nails ripping at Koz’s hands, mouth open and gasping for air that Koz wouldn’t allow him. His cheeks flushed red and his eyes bulged; uselessly, his legs kicked. Koz could barely feel the sting of the cuts, even as lightning sparks of magic shuddered through his nerves. Smoke huffed from Apollo’s nostrils, an instinctive reaction to the danger.

But his fire didn’t ignite, and after a moment, Apollo went limp. His eyes, cognizant, stared soulfully into Koz’s, and he let his body be moved around like a ragdoll, seemingly uncaring as Koz shook him roughly, trying to incite some reaction. His mouth was still open, breath whistling from his crushed windpipe, but he made no movement to fight the suffocation of the imminent death that approached rapidly the longer Koz refused to allow him to breathe.

And for a moment, Koz entertained the thought of doing it. Killing Apollo, tightening his hands until there was no breath left, or jerking Apollo’s head to the side and hearing his neck snap. Wanting to kill him was hardly a new thought. Every one of their fights had been like this, a desperate rush to destroy the other before they could be stopped. In those moments, Koz’s only wish had been to kill him. Perhaps if Apollo had been fighting him back, Koz might’ve done it. Perhaps he wouldn’t have.

But now, faced with its reality, he let go instead.

Apollo crashed down onto the floor, sucking gratefully at air, his convulsing body down at Koz’s feet and not looking so godly after all, with a red ring of soon-to-be bruises around his pale throat and a thin, whistled strain to his breathing.

“Why the hell didn’t you fight back?” Koz demanded. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? I was going to choke you to death.”

He made no move to help Apollo, who, panting, was levering himself painfully onto his elbow to look up at Koz, his free hand rubbing his sore throat. A watery smile stretched over Apollo’s face, and Koz could see the tears streaking down his cheeks, smearing paths through his smudged make-up. He looked like a mess. “You wouldn’t have done it,” Apollo whispered, his voice thin and breathy from lack of air. He coughed.

“I was going to,” objected Koz, because it was no lie. For a moment, he had been fully prepared to murder his own Tsar.

“But you didn’t,” Apollo rasped, “And I knew you wouldn’t. You would never hurt me permanently.” He was still smiling, and abruptly Koz found it infuriating.

He crouched down in front of Apollo and lightly placed his hand over Apollo’s throat. “I still could,” he threatened, “It’s not like I have anything to lose.”

Apollo let him do it, amusement in his eyes. “But you won’t,” he said. “I trust you.”

“You’re fucking insane,” Koz muttered, shaken, and Apollo coughed an agreeing, slightly self-deprecating laugh.

“If it takes choking to show you that you’d prefer me alive to dead, tell me and we can make a night of it next time,” Apollo rasped, and Koz blinked and stared.

“Did you just flirt with me? After I nearly killed you?”

Apollo grinned at him and Koz suddenly wished he had had drunk more before Apollo arrived. “What the hell are you doing in my house, again?” Koz demanded tiredly, and Apollo snorted threadily.

“Report to the Towers of the Moon tomorrow at eleven o’ clock. You’ll swear into my service again and start immediately as my personal bodyguard.” Apollo rose and brushed himself off, seeming far too pleased for someone who had just nearly seen the cold face of death.

“Oh, and Kozmotis? Don’t be late.”


End file.
